The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

A Double Concerto of Doubt

Previously: "The Right Key" 

You play some more pieces after that, for the joy that Preston Spinks would naturally take in playing well after a stressful evening of self-doubt; and, for your part, to glut in having conquered and become, in the most intimate and special way, your new identity. A lush Brahms; a clever Mozart; a spooky Debussy. The last takes something of the concentration the Bach required—the same burrowing into the piano, like you're trying to merge your mind with its strings. But overall it's not a challenging recital you program for yourself. Just a deeply rewarding one.

After that you make some tea and nestle on your bed with Muppet, the family's black-and-white tabby cat, cuddled in your lap as you flip through the internet on your iPad. The night ends early, and by ten-thirty you've brushed your teeth and changed into floppy pajamas, into the crotch of which you tuck a soft hand towel. Preston does not jack off, but he does have frequent night emissions, and he does his own laundry.

* * * * *

You sleep in a little the next morning, and it's seven o'clock before you're up. Preston is not a morning person, but he has first-thing-in-the-morning university classes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and it's easiest to keep to that schedule if he maintains something like it the rest of the week. Despite the morning wood, pajamas and night guard are alike dry, and you hang them up again in the closet after taking a shower.

It's a fair bonus to discover that Preston, in addition to a conventionally handsome face, is well-constructed throughout. A pianist's body, not just his hands, is part of his instrument, and Preston—though not a fanatic—is rigorously prudential about keeping fit. His exercises only lightly strain him, but three patient and diligent years of running and mild weightlifting have given him a defined chest (though one hidden under a rug of curly hair), a trim stomach, strong legs, and good arms. You feel no shyness about padding out of the bathroom with only a towel around your waist. In the bedroom you change to fresh underwear and socks, then don dark workout shorts, a gray t-shirt, and a navy-blue windbreaker. You look yourself over in the bathroom mirror again as you squeeze a little more water out of your short, loose curls, and drape and hook the troublesome ones so they won't droop and flop against your forehead.

"You had some trouble last night," your mom says when you enter the kitchen. She's in a thick bathrobe; the morning oatmeal is already bubbling on the stovetop.

"What trouble?" you ask, startled.

"You were procrastinating for one thing. You didn't play much, either."

"I'm through it now," you assure her as you get down a bowl. "Last week was rough, but—" You shrug.

She stops you to brush back a lock of your hair, and you steel yourself to keep from flinching. "How so?"

You hesitate, sensing quicksand all about you. "Oh, I just kind of lost my focus. Was having a hard time figuring out who I am." Inside, you wince at the veiled confession you've just blurted out.

"Oh, honey! In what way?"

Well, you're in it now. "I dunno." You spoon some oatmeal into a bowl while avoiding her eye. "It's like I was two people, and I was having a hard time getting in phase. Like, do I take this path or do I take that path?"

"What paths? Are you thinking about your career again?"

Your stomach takes an express elevator down to your appendix. You cover the moment by dropping into a seat at the table.

"No. Yes. I don't know." You shove some oatmeal into your mouth, though it blisters your tongue. "That's part of what I mean about being out of focus. I got it back, though. I'm fine."

Still your mom frowns.

"Don't just swallow and hide it, honey, whatever it is," she says. "I know you don't like talking about it, but we can't help you if we don't know what you're feeling. You know—" She grips your shoulder, and you stiffen unpleasantly all over. "We've put so much into your education, but it's not because that's what we want for you. It's because you wanted it, and we want to help you with it. If you've got doubts, or you change your mind, we'll turn around and help you with that."

Sweat has broken out all down your back, and you have chilly flashes.

"And if you wind up being an architect or an engineer or even an insurance salesman"—she smiles satirically—"you will always be rewarded by your musical education." It looks like she's about to blink back some tears. "You will find it such a blessing even if you don't pursue it professionally."

The guilt is now so heavy that you're afraid you're going to throw up.

"Okay, I've embarrassed you enough," she says with a laugh. "I'll let you finish your oatmeal and get on to your workout. I need to fix your dad's breakfast anyway."

Well, you reflect, they say any landing is a good one if you can walk away from it.

* * * * *

After cleaning your bowl and putting it in the dishwasher, you drive up to the university and park in front of the gym. Preston takes three university classes (European Literature, Applied Music, and Introduction to Acoustics) which are credited to his high school course load. The Keyserling financial aid package that covers his books and tuition also gives him a pass to the university gym, and that's where he works out every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning. You deposit the windbreaker and workout bag (after withdrawing a bottle of water) in a locker, and move into the weight room.

It's mostly empty at this early hour, and for a long time Preston was the only regular. Lately, though, a girl has started coming in, no more than ten minutes after his arrival, and never leaving before him. She is never far from his station, but she's never come over to work out right next to him, either. He has the impression that she is constantly watching him from the corner of her eye; but then, she probably has the same impression of him, for it's not hard to be interested in a blonde with a good butt, strong calves, and a pronounced rack. Preston has wondered why she never approaches him to talk; but maybe she wonders the same thing about him.

He dreads the day that she stops showing up. But he feels the same dread of approaching her as you felt at the piano yesterday.

As you settle onto the leg press with one eye furtively cocked on the entrance, watching for the girl, you ruefully reflect on the questions that Nathan posed you yesterday.

Lani. The girl Preston met in Hawaii. She was from Arizona—not Hawaii—and she had dark skin and hair so blonde it was almost white. Her face was elfin, and her figure girlish. She had an infectious laugh, and she delighted in splashing through the surf. She arrived at the conservatory a week after Preston, to study the flute, and as soon as he mentioned he was studying piano her eyes lit up and she told him she wanted to partner with him on some flute and clavier sonatas. He leapt at the chance. They snuck into a practice room that night, but spent it all laughing and talking, and the second night she brought in beer and the third night a joint, so they didn't get anything done those nights either; but on the fourth night they noticed the security guard had changed his route, and stopped going to the practice room at all.

Instead Preston took to staring at the ceiling after going to bed, and fantasizing about Lani sneaking into his room and into his bed, where she would slide her palms up under his pajamas and put her mouth to his, and ... And the next little bit would go hazy, like a movie fading from one scene to a much later scene, and she would be straddling him with his cock far up inside her, and both of them working hard at getting it even further in and more firmly planted.

Even more fraught was the alternative fantasy in which he slipped into the hall and went two doors down, to where her dorm was, to slip inside and sit on the edge of her bed. She'd be awake, and she would eagerly pull him close and wriggle under him. Then her hand would go into his pajama bottoms to help free his straining cock and put it inside her. Her back would arch and his hand would go underneath it as her legs went around him.

He had a lot of hand towels to clean over the next few days.

But no girl with platinum-white hair ever slipped into his room, and he always quailed at the very likely consequences of his going into hers.

After a week of this, a cellist arrived at the conservatory, and Lani, without becoming less friendly to Preston, clearly shifted her attention to him. Within two days it was a joke shared by the other students: the cellist was slipping his flute into the flautist's cello.

Preston didn't lie to Nathan and his other friends about Lani. He merely told of those first three "dates," then dropped a discreet veil and let implication carry the rest.

So why is Preston still a virgin? He is almost sick with desire for girls. He knows he looks good, and he grooms himself nicely. Shouldn't desire and appeal be fruitful?

Last night you "became" Preston Spinks. But that means you are only as queasily mystified as he is.

Only one thing he can figure: He knows how technically to lose his virginity. But to navigate the course from "What's your name?" to that final docking? Not a clue.

That's not something you can help him with either.

So when the girl with the blonde pony tail and the sensational calves walks in, at first you can only do what Preston does: concentrate on the far wall and not acknowledge her.

That's all for now.

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"